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After that the Mare Nostrum received no more damage, the following shots merely raising up columns of water in the steamer's wake. Every time now, these white phantasms leaped up further and further away. Although out of the range of the enemy's gun, it continued shooting and shooting uselessly.
I suddenly threw up the hatch and sat upright, while the strong glare of light from the steamer's furnaces brought out every detail of the boat's interior.
Standing on the bank he surveyed the river carefully. Except for a drifting log there was nothing moving on its wide expanse. He listened intently. The soft wind was blowing down river, but it did not bring with it the throb of a steamer's screw which he half expected to hear. He nodded to himself. "Time enough!"
Sneed had told their story of the starting out to make a pictured shipwreck, which shipwreck had evidently, now, become real. "That's the Mary Ellen, I'm sure of it!" Russ cried as he caught a glimpse of the sighted schooner. "But what has happened to her?" "Masts are gone, and she's sinking," one of the steamer's officers told him. "I guess we can't get to her any too quickly."
A melancholy, humming monotone pervaded the ravine, seeming to increase in remonstrance and warning the higher I ascended. Wylo had told of the noise like a steamer's whistle a long way off. His local knowledge was being authenticated at every step.
Beverly Clarenden and I stood on the deck of a river steamer as it made the wharf at old Westport Landing, where Esmond Clarenden waited for us. And long before the steamer's final bump against the pier we had noted the tall, slender girl standing beside him. We had been away three years, the only schooling outside of Uncle Esmond's teaching we were ever to have.
Freeth?" said he, with a grip like like any horrible thing that is hard and iron and clamping in a steamer's machinery and athwart his green-grey eyes filled with wind and sea passed a gleam of humour "There's still time." "I would come with pleasure," said I, "were it not for the fact that all my spare moments are devoted to the translation of a Persian poet." If I am not urbane, I am nothing.
I told the steamer's purser as much of my story as I had told on the Gretchen, and when that evening I appeared at the captain's table transformed by bathing in a real tub and submission to a real razor in the hands of a real barber, it was to find that my story had traveled forward and aft. St. Paul was a very good man.
Old Jorgen was standing before his window, playing with the little Jorgen, who sat inside on the windowseat. "Peep, peep, little one!" he cried, in his shrill voice, and he hid, and bobbed up into sight again. The young wife was holding the child; she was rosy with maternal delight. "You'll be sure to let us hear from you," said Lasse yet again, as Pelle stood leaning over the steamer's rail.
Then I thanked the little woman again most heartily, and, as I took from her hands the door-key and stepped outside into the rain to bring my waiting friends and baggage from the freight house, I offered a little prayer of thanks to our good Father, and hurried away. At the steamer's landing all was hurly-burly and noise.
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